


The Pines Were Roaring

by ofthewibblywobblytimeywimeystuff



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bifur acts as Bofur and Bombur's parent, Headcanon, I am a terrible person, Orphans, before the adventure, home in the Blue Mountains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofthewibblywobblytimeywimeystuff/pseuds/ofthewibblywobblytimeywimeystuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bifur draws a different memory from the song of the Misty Mountains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pines Were Roaring

“The pines were roaring on the height, the winds were mourning in the night. The fire was red it flaming spread with trees like torches blazed with light.” For Bifur, these words brought back memories of a different time, separate but, personally, closer to home than the dragon Smaug’s attack on Erebor. He understood Thorin’s desire for vengeance and reconciliation for what he once lost, but Bifur’s thoughts were drawn back to a separate loss; that of loved ones in an orc assault on the Blue Mountains. The place he had grown up and the home where much of his family had still dwelled had been destroyed long ago and the pain in his fellow’s voices led him to remember; remember another time fire ate away everything that dwarves held dear.

He was a grown dwarf, living on his own, and traveling to his home town in the Blue Mountains to visit his mother’s siblings, and their two young sons; his two little cousins. He hadn’t been to the little village for some time, and he was looking forward to visiting his family again. He had experimented with some of his woodcraft, and had the makings of some fine toys he was sure the two little ones would enjoy. But the day was to take a dark turn. He was reaching the outskirts of the city when he noticed a chilling, unnatural silence in the air. Confused, he quickened his pace; he crossed the final peaks and the village’s resting place was thrown into view. What he saw, in sharp contrast to his memories of a peaceful mountain civilization, was a flaming wreckage of ruined homes and lives. The night before, the orcs had attacked.

The panic-stricken dwarf dropped his pack and ran forward. He passed a few weary survivors and many fallen dead, frantically winding his way through the ruined streets, on a path he knew well, to where his family lived, afraid of what he might find. His parents had passed on some time ago, but he saw the house he had grown up in was laid waste. He continued on the remembered path and met the worst of his fears; house of his aunt and uncle was destroyed; part of the rubble was on fire and only a far corner remained intact. Bifur rushed forward, calling his family’s names to no response. He shifted through the ruins until he found them; the bodies of his aunt and uncle, lying together amongst the burning wood. He fell to the ground, hit by grief. After a moment of staring in shock, he gingerly removed his uncle’s signature hat from where it lay a couple feet away, tucking it into his coat and wiping soot from their faces and their hair as a tear rolled down his cheek and into his beard. Slowly, he took the toys he had crafted out of pocket and placed them by his aunt and uncle’s heads, as a recognition and boding farewell to the pair. He bit back a sob, then paused when he heard a voice ahead of him. He followed the sound to the remaining corner of the house, where he found some hope after all.

In the protection of the wall sat a small dwarf boy with familiar dark hair pulled into a couple of messy braids, singing softly to another, younger boy cradled in his lap. The younger, this one with distinguishing flaming red hair, was dozing slightly with the soothing words of his older brother in his ear. The dark-haired boy sang, stroking the other’s hair, forcibly unaware of the desolation around him. Bifur stared at the pair for a moment, until he found his words and croaked,  
“…Bofur?”

The younger stiffened, instinctively shifting his now stirring brother further in the protection of his lap. He slowly looked up and Bifur noticed faint tear tracks breaking soot spots on the young dwarf’s face, that had been hastily wiped off. The boy sniffed, and his face slowly split into a crooked smile.  
“Cousin Bifur?”

“Hnzzxh?” The youngest dwarf had awoken, crawling from beneath his brother’s arms to rest beside him and stare blearily at the older dwarf, finally mumbling happily, “Cousin Bifur!”

Remembering himself, Bifur lurched forward and dropped to his knees, gripping the two tightly and letting out a cry of relief. He pulled both closer, letting out all pent up sorrow and joy, as Bombur rubbed his eyes, awake now and confused, and Bofur could finally allow himself to cry quietly into his cousin’s large jacket, having to have been strong for the sake of the younger for all this time.

“Boys…” Bifur whispered, “Shh, lads, it’s going to be all right. It’s over. You’re safe, you’re here, and I will protect you, I swear to ye I will.”  
After a minute Bifur slowly stood up, and guided to two tiny dwarves out of their ruined home, and together they went in the direction in which Bifur had come. The two boys became his life. He cared for them as best he could and watched them grow to become two fine young dwarves.

Now here they sat, as grown dwarves; the distinctive hat and dark braids of their father and flaming red hair of their mum, lost in thought beside their cousin. The three hummed and sang the same words as their companions but the pang of sorrow came from a different memory. The passion and hurt in their voices were reminiscent of a different time, on the day their home in the Blue Mountains burned.


End file.
